


The Affair of the Dapper Whale

by kayliemalinza



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Drug Use, F/M, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-19
Updated: 2011-10-19
Packaged: 2017-10-28 13:52:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/308541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayliemalinza/pseuds/kayliemalinza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes is accidentally hiiiiigh.</p><p>Teaser:<br/>Holmes is lying upon a person. The dress of that person is organdy; he can hear it rustle beneath his ear and feel the rasp of it beneath his fingers. He assumes those are his fingers, but then, there are too many to properly keep track. Are those his, carding gently through the curls at his nape? They are too slim, with a well-manicured nail and without callouses from the violin or ragged skin from acid burns. Not his, then.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Affair of the Dapper Whale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [middletone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/middletone/gifts).



> Written for [this kinkmeme prompt](http://shkinkmeme.livejournal.com/6327.html?thread=12565943#t12565943). Picture: a cartoon whale dressed in a suit and monocle on a pink background with the caption: "What are you doing, whale. Don't stand there wearing a suit looking dandy as fuck. You're not even English!"

Holmes is lying upon a person. The dress of that person is organdy; he can hear it rustle beneath his ear and feel the rasp of it beneath his fingers. He assumes those are his fingers, but then, there are too many to properly keep track. Are those his, carding gently through the curls at his nape? They are too slim, with a well-manicured nail and without callouses from the violin or ragged skin from acid burns. Not his, then.

"Here he is," says a sweet voice, and from farther off in this chamber a door clicks softly shut.

"What's wrong with him? What did you give him, Miss Adler?" A new voice cuts through the air with impolite volume.

Holmes lifts his head from the fine bosom it had been resting against and growls, "Who the devil are you?"

"Holmes—" says the sweet voice, all the sweeter now that it travels to his ear through air rather than through the pearly-slick lungs and delicate meat and the cotton chemise, scented with lavender soap. The whalebone is no longer poking him in the jaw; another improvement.

"Holmes," says the other voice. It is not as loud as it was before, but still not sweet. Holmes will suss out this intruder.

"Tell me who you are, man!" he says. "No—allow me to examine you. I will discover your identity without having been told. I am a consulting detective, you know."

The new voice sighs deeply. Decent lung capacity, not overstressed. A fit man of average height. The rustle indicates that he is wearing at least three layers of clothing: linen and wool, not organdy. "Holmes," says the voice. "It's me, Wat—"

"Quiet!" Holmes snaps. "I am giving a demonstration."

"What did you give him?" says the disagreeable voice.

The skin-lung-organdy pillow beneath Holmes jostles, as if agitated. The sweet voice answers, "The bottle is over there, on the mantlepiece. I wasn't told anything about its chemical composition."

"What foreign devilry...." the new voice is quieter. If it continues to improve, Holmes may allow it to stay. All voices must be carefully restricted, as they impair his concentration. "Miss Adler, this time you have gone too far."

Those fingers and trim nails are petting at Holmes' scalp again, coaxing him back down to the bosom and the whalebone torment. "It has never had this effect before," says the sweet voice.

"What effect did you intend, then?" Oh, that will not do at all; the voice is being uncommonly loud again. "Unconsciousness, so that you could leave him alone and vulnerable in this dangerous house? Or perhaps you could humiliate him again."

"I did not—"

"Haven't you harmed his well-being and reputation enough already?"

Holmes presses his ear more tightly against the skin beneath it; the clotted heartbeat there is far preferable to this tirade.

"I went to great risk to call you in here, as it so happens," says the sweet voice. That heart is beating a trifle faster; Holmes can feels his own blood thrumming through all his veins in a sympathetic response.

"So you did," murmurs the other voice. "Thank you."

Holmes rouses himself. The bosom has a soporific effect, but there is work to be done. "If you would please cease nattering on! I am going to employ all of my senses, and deduce the identity and occupation of this very loud gentleman!"

"Am I being too loud?" Ah, so the owner of this new voice is not a total idiot, then.

"No, Doctor," answers the sweet voice.

"I deduce you are a doctor!" cries Holmes.

"Very good, Sherlock," says the sweet voice, with an intimation of the sweetest smile to accompany it.

"Thank you, Miss Corset," says Holmes. He has little time or inclination for the fairer sex, but it is advantageous to take pains in charming them. "Pray allow me to continue. Any detail, even the smallest visual clue, will make this man known to me."

A small hand—not his—pats Holmes' shoulder. "Your eyes are closed."

"So they are. Thank you, dear," he says.

"You're welcome."

Holmes pries open his lids with great difficulty and some assistance from his fingers—his own fingers, he confirms, with their callouses and wide nails and the tenderness on the distal knuckle of his left ring finger from a paper cut.

"Great Scott!" he cries. "This man is a whale!"

The bosom quivers and the sweet voice (arising from a sweet face, as Holmes can now see) erupts in a fit of giggling.

The whale gapes at Holmes, as if the detective were more sensational than his own person. That is an absurd contest; what could be more sensational than a whale standing in the middle of the room inexplicably posing as a man in a suit?

"I beg your pardon?"

Oh, what a grand trick, assuming a human voice! Holmes will have to inquire as to his methods of disguise.

"A whale," says Holmes. How tedious it is to explain his conclusions to simpletons. "A mammalian behemoth of the oceans, tentatively believed to be a cousin of the dolphin. Your face is quite beautiful, dear," he adds to the bosom.

"Thank you, Sherlock."

"But aren't you concerned that your scales will dry out, being on land like this?" Holmes says. Now that he has had a good look, it is quite clear that the silvery-blue fabric of her dress is merely a camouflage for the aquatic flesh beneath. And there, at her neck, some trapezoidal scales and attendant gills are showing through the masquerade of humanity. Any other person would overlook them as merely a necklace or ornament, but Sherlock Holmes overlooks nothing. "Back to the matter of the whale," he says.

A timely change of focus it is, for the whale has come quite close upon Holmes. "No wonder he kept his eyes closed," says the whale. "The pupils are as wide as saucers."

"Remove your flippers from my person, good sir!" cries Holmes.

"It's alright, Holmes, I'm a doctor," says the whale.

"I wasn't aware that there were any undersea medical universities in operation," Holmes says waspishly. "Where did you train? The Northern Atlantic? The West Indies?" If this gentleman is so casual with the truth as to disclaim his species, how can one trust his credentials? "Why are you in disguise as a human, hmm? For what reason have you left your home of kelp and donned such a dandy suit?"

The whale appears taken aback, but in a transparent bid to maintain his cover, he changes the subject: "I thought this was a sensible suit."

"It is. Exceedingly so," says the sweet voice. She sounds so very dry; Holmes decides they much return her to the nearest body of water as soon as they are finished here. A prolonged dip in the Thames would do her a world of good. "You must admit, Dr Watson, that is a rather whalish shade of grey. The influence of Mrs Watson, I would presume?"

"You would do well to refrain from speaking of my wife, Miss Adler."

"You could stand to wear a bit more color, is all."

"Back to the matter at hand," Holmes says sternly. He will not be manipulated by these deceptive sea-dwellers. "Dr Whale, for what reason have you come here? Are you a fugitive? Have you run afoul of some marine law? Tell me, my good man—has this lady fish been blackmailing you?"

"Holmes, please see reason! I am your dear friend Watson. A man, not a whale!"

" _You_ see reason!" Holmes bellows. "It's as plain as day that you are a whale! What do you hope to gain by denying it? I will suss you out, blackguard!" Holmes breaks off his explanation to make a thorough examination of the whale's features, grappling about with his fingers (yes, _his_ fingers!) "See here, his screen of baleen, which has been drastically trimmed," he says, stroking the bristles upon the whale's upper lip. "I assume this is part of your restrictive diet, which further explains your diminished stature. All the better to pass among humans."

"You are talking utter nonsense," says the whale, extremely rudely.

"Ah, so you require more evidence, do you?" says Holmes. There is nothing for it but to now employ his mouth, which is after all a very sophisticated sensory instrument.

The whale splutters in a most undignified manner and pulls away from Holmes, but it is too late.

"There!" says Holmes. "It is as I thought: the tell-tale flavour of brine." He also encountered a particular slick marine muscle in that briny cavern, which was surely the tentacle of some past meal standing in as a tongue. However, it is better to let such macabre details remain unspoken in the presence of a lady.

The sweet voice laughs. "Now it seems that you are the fish, Dr Watson, with your mouth hanging open like that!"

Holmes sighs. Did he not just provide incontrovertible evidence as to this gentleman's whaleness? _Fish, indeed._


End file.
